In the wake of the latest school shooting—one among countless others by the time you read this—I found myself engulfed in a profound sense of outrage. It was an unprecedented blend of disgust, fear, helplessness, and raw anger that stirred within me.
Determined to transform this anger into something constructive, I took steps to rally my peers, urging them to engage in discussions on the gun versus mental health debate. Unfortunately, my calls for action largely fell on deaf ears, intensifying my rage. My focus shifted from elected officials to the apathetic citizens around me. “Why doesn’t anyone care enough to take a stand?” I wondered in disbelief.
I was puzzled by how others seemed to continue with their daily lives, as if the ongoing violence had no impact on them, and they truly believed it wouldn’t strike again. Suddenly, it all felt intensely personal. Each time I encountered someone defending gun rights or withdrawing from crucial conversations, I felt as though they were dismissing the lives of my children.
Reflecting on the reactions of those closest to me, I questioned why many of my friends of color were not expressing outrage in the same way I was. Black Americans are acutely aware of this issue, given that black children are ten times more likely to fall victim to gun violence compared to their white counterparts. As I scrutinized my own inquiry, a sense of embarrassment washed over me. My black friends have been fighting against gun violence for years, while I was only now allowing myself to feel this anger.
I realized that, until this moment, I had unconsciously categorized incidents involving black youth into a detached “sad, but…” file in my mind: “Sad, but I don’t know the full story,” or “Sad, but they might have been involved in risky behavior,” or “Sad, but my children are thankfully shielded from such risks.” It pains me to acknowledge this truth, but I believe it’s essential to contribute to the ongoing discourse surrounding gun violence in America. My newfound outrage is tainted by a perspective colored by white privilege.
I have never had to worry about my children being targeted due to their skin color. It is only now, as firearms invade schools like those my children attend, that I feel this profound anger.
While I don’t have all the solutions to the gun violence epidemic, it seems that every proposed remedy leads to more questions and complications. This message is not intended to sway opinions nor is it a plea for change. It’s not about making myself a martyr or guilt-tripping anyone. I merely felt compelled to publicly acknowledge my white privilege in the context of gun violence, especially given my current vocal stance on the firearm-related mortality crisis in America.
This serves as a heartfelt apology to my peers of color, as I recognize that I have often remained silent while you have pleaded for relief from gun violence.
I apologize for it taking me this long to get this angry.
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In summary, the author reflects on their delayed anger regarding gun violence, acknowledging their privilege and the necessity for a more inclusive dialogue about this urgent issue.
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